


sangre por sangre

by the_parallax_of_rain



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Not Really Character Death, Other, because Lalo isn't really dead?, but Hector and Gus believe he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_parallax_of_rain/pseuds/the_parallax_of_rain
Summary: Takes place after S5E10 (so possible spoilers). After hearing that the assassination attempt in Chihuahua has been successful, Gus visits Hector with news regarding his favorite nephew.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 18





	sangre por sangre

Hector is not the type of man to sit by the fireplace at dusk and reflect on his life, but there is little else to do when one has been paralyzed and is now wheelchair-bound -- not to mention that that _lovely_ nurse Emily had all but abandoned him there to run off and tend to the whims of some other resident. Now, he takes whatever time alone that he can to continue thinking up ever more vicious ways to siphon Eladio’s favoritism away from Gustavo Fring, making plans that deep down he knows he will never be able to carry out himself nor communicate to someone else.

Ever since Lalo had left, his days have begun to blur without the prospect of any more of his visits. He hasn’t been able to get all his possessions delivered here yet, so he now spends large swathes of time staring at the small framed photo resting on his bedside table, thinking about the height of the Salamanca regime and the future they had been planning to seize with a vengeance. In the photo, he is sitting down with young Marco and Leonel, and Tuco is hovering nearby. Hector tries to recall exactly when their tipping point into Salamanca brutality had been, when they had learned the meaning and honor behind having Salamanca blood and when their smiles became scowls. The cartel values utility above all else, and he knows he is now empty of threats and action and his former bravado, having been betrayed by his own body – most days he fumes at being left alone here, tucked in this safe pocket of Albuquerque, so far removed from the blood and dust that had characterized his life for the past fifty years.

Once in a while, some people from the nursing home staff will interrupt his brooding to check on his blood pressure and make sure he takes his medicine. Then they’ll wheel him outside to join the other residents, and ply him with nutritional drinks and saltine crackers to the point where all he really wants to do is fucking sock them in their bright, hopeful faces because who do they think they are?

Hector’s finger hovers over the bell fixed to the arm of his wheelchair. He realizes that he misses discussing business with Lalo. His eldest nephew had scooped him from the depths of what the doctors called “depression”; between wheeling him around the sunny garden out back or sitting together in the dimly-lit room that Hector inhabited, Lalo never ceased to indulge him with the latest news on their operations and details on how much money he had pried away from their competing chicken enterprise. Hector found himself living vicariously through the wicked gleam in Lalo’s eyes.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his solitary reminiscing. “Hector, there’s someone here to see you!” One of the nurses taps his arm lightly to get his attention. “Let me know if the two of you need anything.”

“Thank you, nurse. We will be fine.” He recognizes that voice. Hector turns his head and there he stands, stiff, with a smile on his face. The Chilean.

“Hector, I trust you are doing well.” Fring pulls up a chair and sits down directly across from him. Hector can’t read his gaze behind those glasses, reflecting the firelight, obscuring those undoubtedly hate-filled eyes.

“You may have been informed already, but your nephew Lalo has caused us quite a bit of trouble lately. He burned down one of my restaurants. He has been giving away the money from my dead drops to the DEA.” If he could, Hector would have smirked at how efficiently Lalo had shouldered the duty of becoming the instrument of his wishes.

“I must admit, Don Hector,” Fring murmurs, emphasizing his title, “that Eduardo Salamanca makes a formidable opponent. But of course, the candle that burns twice as bright, burns half as long.”

 _Qué chingados?_ The words jump to Hector’s throat as quickly as they evaporate. _Why are you even here, you bastard?_

But under Fring’s steady, challenging gaze, Hector’s deepest instincts claw their way to the surface, and Hector knows why.

He has not indulged in grief or fear since he first stepped foot into the cartel business. He crushes them, unwelcome, in the back of his mind whenever they arrive, so that whatever feelings are left over can only lap at the edges of his perception. Anger, on the other hand, is ever-present, a slow flood that sweeps along his every thought. He is the most comfortable when he is drenched with it, and he had expected that seeing the Chilean here, gaining footing within the cartel as Hector himself slips from his former glory, would ignite his rage.

But this time, as Fring, perched like a vulture across from him, asks him if he would like to know the details of the attack on Lalo’s hacienda, Hector is suddenly aware of raw, unknown wounds opening up inside him, and his thoughts are scattered by the beginnings of denial. The slow burn of anger is abruptly extinguished by a biting onslaught of anguish.

There is emotion blooming on the tip of his tongue that he cannot release, something foreign. Fring gives it a name. _Sangre por sangre._

Fring continues speaking, but Hector doesn’t hear. He sits stoically, gazing into the flames, and thinks of burning hotels, of bells and screams and oily smoke. He envisions his Lalo, hair streaked with ash, face splitting into a grin, eyes dark and simmering with mirth – _that’ll teach them to show some respect, Tio!_ Under his gaze, the image of his nephew blurs in the heat and condenses into someone much younger, someone who would always meet him with a mischievous smile and a new scrape or bruise from his many escapades in and around their villa, awaiting his uncle’s approval. _Tio, I’m back, and I did it just like you asked! Mama won’t need to be worried anymore._

 _La familia es todo._ Lalo’s last words to him dance like dying embers in the periphery of Hector’s mind, and the steady sound of gunfire thrums like a heartbeat in his ears. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a long-time lurker here and finally decided to take a shot at writing my own fics! The latest episodes in Season 5 got me feeling some type of way about Lalo and Hector's relationship and I really hope the show explores that more. Writing mute but furious Hector is really hard, yikes! But @Peter Gould, if Lalo does actually die, then I NEED to see mad, grieving Hector. I’m a total sucker for the Salamanca family storyline :) Also the Salamancas are all obsessed with fire and I’m here for it.


End file.
